Possession
by Esther Cain014
Summary: No man, not even you, can possess me.


La Volpe pulled Machiavelli closer, and kicked the door behind them closed. The headquarters were, for once, dead silent, and the master thief intended to take full advantage of an empty house. He grinned and leaned in to kiss Machiavelli, hungry and all tongue. Desperate to be as close to his young lover as possible, La Volpe took the younger man's hands in his own and pushed them against the door behind him, bringing their bodies flush.

Their kiss deepened and Machiavelli arched his neck back when Volpe grinded their hips together. Unwilling to distance himself even the slightest, La Volpe began kissing the warm, bruised neck in front of him.

Another moan and Volpe couldn't help the grin that spread across his features, "Ah tesoro, you are beautiful."

One of Machiavelli's hands broke free and found its way into La Volpe's hair, tugging the thief away from the younger man's neck.

"Do not forget your promise, La Volpe," Machiavelli released his hair and trailed his hand lower and lower until he could knead at the thief's ass, "and I will not forget mine."

La Volpe released Machiavelli's other hand and relocated his own, leaving what he knew would be dark marks along the younger man's spine tomorrow morning, "Ah Niccolò, I have not forgotten our agreement. Just testing the allotments allowed me." He grabbed a handful of pert ass and moved in to kiss his lover once more, his frustration and adoration in every caress of his tongue.

"I understand what it is you want now, amore mio."

He pushed Machiavelli once more up against the door, grinding against him until they were both straining against each other's erections. La Volpe kneaded the flesh of the assassin's ass, wanting to leave bruises, needing to possess this brilliant young man. Using the door as leverage, and his own trained body, Volpe hoisted Machiavelli from the floor, guiding his legs around his waist where the young man situated himself comfortably.

Machiavelli's hands found their way back into Volpe's hair as the thief carried them further into the room, he tugged and massaged just enough to keep the fox distracted as he moved them onto the large bed.

La Volpe laid them down, taking in the appearance of Machiavelli, disheveled and panting, a deep blush painted over his face. Volpe locked his gaze with the younger man's and smiled; he pushed against Machiavelli's shoulders, drinking in the sight of the young assassin arching off the bed. The thief took advantage and pulled the dress robes from his lover's body and threw them to the floor before sliding his hands underneath the thin linen shirt.

He could feel the telling raised skin of scars all across Machiavelli's torso, previous wounds too deep to heal properly, more recent welts and abrasions that Volpe refused to acknowledge. He pushed the tunic further up the younger man's chest, his lips following close behind, lapping at each scar and wound, kissing away the anger at seeing them on such a young and brilliant man. When he reached the junction of Machiavelli's neck and chest, Volpe made a quick decision and tugged the linen over his lover's head and situated it at the nape of his neck.

He brought their lips together once more, biting softly on the bottom lip of his lover and chanced a glance at Machiavelli's expression.

"What is it you think you are doing, old fox?"

La Volpe just grinned wider and adjusted the body beneath him so he could grab at the neck collar of the semi-discarded shirt; once in his grip, he pulled it sharply, just enough to jerk the arms of the young assassin without harming him too much.

Before any complaints could be launched, Volpe grabbed at Machiavelli's hair, pulled his head back and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. The younger man groaned at the rough treatment, but did not voice any objections and Volpe took it as a sign to continue; he pressed open-mouthed kisses all along the line of his neck muscle, sucking hard beneath Machiavelli's ear, then biting the same section of skin.

Machiavelli shouted in pain or pleasure, he wasn't really sure, arched his back off the bed, and threw his head back, giving the thief more room. "V-Volpe."

"Remember our agreement, amore mio."

Machiavelli groaned again, desperation in his voice and his body, he let his body fall to the bed and arched again, making sure to rub their erections together this time. 

"I believe," he stammered, repeating his movements, "we agreed for _you_ to keep your mouth shut until _I_ allowed it, _amore mio_."

Volpe bit once more beneath Machiavelli's ear and brought his hips down to meet the younger man's upward motion.

"Semantics, dear Niccolò."

Machiavelli's eyes narrowed, the playful light evaporating in the darkened room. Using his momentum, he threw his leg on top of Volpe's and flipped their positions and slammed his lips onto the thief's, their grinding stopping not once.

The assassin yanked the hem of Volpe's tunic down between them and, with the fabric sufficiently stretched, tore a hole up the front, exposing the scarred skin of the older man. He growled deep in his throat, the sound barely audible over their combined panting, and deepened their kiss, biting and thrusting his tongue against Volpe's.

His hands roamed against the warm skin of the thief, his nails digging into the sections of clear skin the found; when they passed gently of the hardened nipples, Volpe moaned into the younger man's mouth, his hips jerking out of rhythm.

"Fuck, Niccolò."

It was Machiavelli's turn to grin into the kiss. He trailed a path back down the torso of the man under him, reveling in the small whimpers when he caressed hardened nubs once more, and the outright groans when he dug his fingers into the dip of his hips. He adjusted his body just so, enough room now to move his hands even lower.

"Ah dear Gilberto, there is so much I wish for you to do to me," Machiavelli sat up, digging his nails now into the skin of Volpe's hips and trailing them downward, dragging the material with them. The master thief just groaned, not wanting to see the look of disappointment in the young man's bright eyes again.

The noise made in the back of his lover's throat was all the encouragement Machiavelli needed and he smiled before yanking the hose completely down. He peeled the thin garment off Volpe's thighs and knees and swiped the unlaced boots off before removing the hose entirely.

When he was completely unclothed, Volpe sat up and pecked a quick kiss to the top of the younger man's forehead. Unable, or unwilling, to speak, the master thief stared into the assassin's eyes before glancing down at the still clothed erection between them. Machiavelli followed his gaze, grabbed Volpe's hand in his own and brought them to his own hips.

"Remove them, tesoro."

His heart beating thousands of paces a minute, Volpe only nodded before sliding his body back towards the edge of the bed, pulling Machiavelli along with him. He allowed his body to fall off the edge and knelt between his young lover's thighs, all the while never looking away, or moving his hands.

Prostrate before the most brilliant of men, Volpe smiled before finally moving his hands, and guiding his lover's along with them, and replacing them with his mouth. He looked up at Machiavelli once more and smiled before taking the hem of the hose between his teeth and gently tugged. The garment slid like silk from his body, and with only a little help from his hands with the boots, Volpe managed to even the playing field.

Still kneeling on the hard floor between Machiavelli's thighs, and with his erection standing at attention at eye level, Volpe took his young lover in hand. The assassin groaned above him and buried his hands deep into the thief's hair, tugging gently at the strands. Knowing his movements were being watched as though a hawk watched for prey, Volpe tightened his grip and twisted his hand just so – the sound from above him was all the reward he needed.

Ignoring the pulling on his hair, the master thief removed his hands and reached for Machiavelli's discarded robes. There, in the hidden pocket, he found an unopened bottle of oil.

Agony ripped through his heart at the sight of the bottle, but pushed the pain aside and climbed back onto the bed behind the younger man. He wrapped his arms around Machiavelli's middle, and kissed the back of his neck. Even in the darkness of the room, Volpe could see the tarnished section of skin just beneath the end of the young assassin's hair.

Anger and pain flooded his heart once more, sending a burn through his blood stream that had nothing to do with his throbbing erection. He grabbed at the bottle in his hand and twisted the lid off with minimal effort, shoving his anger down, and keeping in perspective the panting and needy man in front of him.

Without any words, the thief guided the younger man down, and, as gently as possible, coated his fingers in the oil, and pushed inside his lover.

Machiavelli yelped in pain, his body seizing up at the intrusion. "F-fuck, that hurts."

The thief leaned in, his straining length sliding against the slick of his lover's back, and spoke at a whisper into Machiavelli's ear, "I do not wish to infringe on the terms of our agreement, but I must insist that you relax, amore mio."

Volpe thrust his finger inside Machiavelli with more yielding results. He hummed as a way of encouragement, knowing on instinct that the terms were once again set in place. The thief, when the sharp intakes of breath eased into pleasurable whines, removed his finger, slicked up with the oil on two this time, and returned to preparing the young assassin.

When Machiavelli continued to tense up, Volpe eased his thrusts, and kissed along the shuddering back beneath him. He lapped at a rather pleasing section of skin on Machiavelli's shoulder which rewarded him with little moans intertwined with his breathing.

He continued his ministrations, keeping them slow, kissing down and up, and down once more until finally, the young assassin shuddered beneath him.

"Please, Volpe, I need you."

"Tesoro," the thief removed his fingers, found the bottle and rubbed the oil over his erection, massaging more into his lover's ass for good measure, "on your knees, dearest Niccolò."

Volpe could scarcely wait, he caressed the beautiful young man on his kneeling for him, and grabbed at Machiavelli's ass, spreading his cheeks and rubbed his erection along the cleft.

"Damn it, Volpe, do not tease!"

"My apologies, dearheart, I just need to know."

Machiavelli hung his head, a groan escaping from his lips, "If you do not fuck me now, fox, I will leave this building and return to my study where I will—"

Volpe growled, refusing to hear the rest, and pushed himself deep into his lover's waiting body. He moaned at the tight heat that engulfed him, throwing his head back even as he worshipped Machiavelli's scarred body.

The assassin screamed in pain and his muscles tensed. He scrambled and fought against the body above him, despite his previous words and pleas. He was sure the night would end in the wrong way, but Volpe did not move once he was fully buried in his body.

"Shh, Machia, darling, are you okay?" Volpe caressed the younger man's back, up to his shoulders and down his arms until he stretched his body over his Machiavelli's and laced his fingers with the ones trembling on the bed. When the assassin did not answer him, Volpe dropped his head to the curve of his lover's back. He knew he was violating their agreement again, but he could not help but voice his concerns; he was an attentive person after all.

"Tesoro—" 

"Move, Gilberto."

His words having been executed before birth, Volpe occupied his mouth by kissing the various lacerations in front of him. There had been desperation in his lover's voice—something Volpe was not accustomed to hearing.

It aroused him greatly, that a man such as Niccolò Machiavelli would allow a thief such as him to witness such passion coming from his mouth. He rocked his hips forward, pushing further into the heat of the young man. A groan was pulled from the assassin's mouth when his lover rubbed against his prostate.

"Oh Christ, Volpe." 

The thief hummed against the back of his lover's neck and repeated the motion, moving his hips back and thrusting them forward again. Machiavelli raised his ass to meet with Volpe's thrusts, swearing into the sheets.

"F-fuck, Volpe, right there."

Volpe paused in his movements, and brought his hand around to Machiavelli's chest, he palmed the skin over his heart, and pulled out completely.

"For fuck's sake—" 

The older man flipped the assassin on to his back, angry eyes glaring at him, before he hiked the shaking knees over his shoulders and pushed back into his lover's warm body.

Machiavelli groaned when the pressure returned, just skating past his prostate and he jerked his hips up to meet Volpe's short thrusts. A cry escaped him when Volpe's hand stroked his weeping length and he threw his head back, not caring about his volume.

The young assassin clawed at the bed for purchase, his panting speeding up in tandem with their bodies' movements. He jerked his hips up into the warm hand twisting and pulling on his cock, he was so close…

Volpe heard the telling sound of his lover's keening and paused. He ignored the shouts of protest and gently squeezed the base of Machiavelli's cock. His lover arched and threw his head back once more in pleasure and frustration.

He rocked his hips forward and back, moving in and out of his lover's body, barely caressing his prostate.

The assassin twisted on the sheets, one hand still clawing at the sheets, the other moved to grasp at Volpe's restricting grip, his weak fingers pushing against the unrelenting pressure on his length.

"Volpe, w-what are you…"

"Tell me, Machia," he cut of the desperate words, his hips never ceasing their pulsing, "and I would love your honesty."

He kept his hand restricting on his lover's cock and slid the other one up the back of the assassin's thighs, squeezing at the muscle of his ass and around to his navel.

"It is something you need to work one, I know, but bear with me, love."

He continued up his torso, worshiping at the pert nipples begging for attention. He tweaked them, and smile at the cry of pleasure torn from Machiavelli's lips. He allowed the younger man to arch off the bed, could see the yearning in his wide eyes.

"P-please, Gilberto." 

The master thief ignored his lover's plea, worked his hand up his chest and neck, following the curve of the assassin's arched head, and around to yank harshly on the dark strands of hair.

"Did you cum for him, amore mio?"

Volpe could see the heart in Machiavelli's chest stop for a second and start back again with renewed intensity. He narrowed his eyes, allowing his simmering anger release.

When no words came from his lover, he jerked his hands, one to pull the assassin's neck taut, and the other to elicit the shout of pleasure from the gasping lips. He drove deep in Machiavelli's waiting body, accenting his words with powerful thrusts.

"Niccolò, did you cum for that Templar?" 

"Volpe!" 

"Niccolò."

He sobbed in tortured pleasure, his member weeping and unable to release.

"No! No, I couldn't. I would not!"

Machiavelli cried out when Volpe thrust himself fully into his body, and released his head and cock. He arched up in every thrust, shouting obscenities.

"Damn it, fox!" 

"Cum for me, Niccolò, only for me."

The assassin's body arched and taut, seized up as his release shot through his body and he cried out in helpless pleasure. Volpe could feel hot splashes of his lover's seed on his torso, and he fell right behind him, releasing deep into the young man's body.

The only sound in the room was of their collaborative breathing. Volpe fell on top of Machiavelli, not caring about the mess that now decorated himself, the young man beneath him, and the bed they were lying on. Their breathing intertwined, and the thief could smell the sweat and oil above all else. He nuzzled his nose into the assassin's hair and inhaled the natural scent of the dark strands.

Machiavelli below him shuddered and brought his hands to clutch at his lover's back. He dug his fingers deep into Volpe's shoulder blades and shifted his body to where he was comfortably sandwiched between the hot body and the soft bed. His movements sparked an aching burn down his back and ass and groaned against Volpe' neck.

The thief hummed and lifted his head from Machiavelli's hair; he saw the pained expression on his face and caressed the damp cheek. Volpe had not realized that the assassin had shed tears, and seeing them brought forth a bleak feeling in his chest.

"Did I hurt you, tesoro?" 

Machiavelli only dug his fingernails into the skin of Volpe's shoulders, drawing blood and trailing it down his back.

"You did nothing that I was not prepared for, nor that I did not allow."

Volpe could not help but chuckle at the strength the young assassin displayed. There was so much raw power and potential holed up in such a young body. He shook his head and opened his mouth to respond, but a shaking hand silenced him.

"Do not speak, Gilberto. Our agreement lasted until sunrise if I recall correctly."

The thief could do nothing but stare incredulously at his lover. He plopped his body back down on top of Machiavelli, reveling in the groan of discomfort that sounded next to his ear for his antics.

They lay there for a few minutes, until Volpe could feel his softened member sliding from his lover's body. He pushed himself back up on shaking arms, his eyes drooping and a yawn crawling from his mouth. He glanced down at Machiavelli's face on which a mirror expression was seen. A smile awoke in his eyes and he pushed himself from the bed.

He sauntered to the joined room where a basin of cold water and a clean towel lay, he grabbed them and some fresh sheets from a cupboard. When he returned, Machiavelli's mouth was wide in a yawn and his body completely lax.

Without taking up too much of their allotted sleep time before the hideout was once more full of assassin's, thieves and the like, Volpe cleaned his lover's skin, apologizing with only his eyes and small kisses when Machiavelli's skin broke out in goose bumps from the cold water. He then rolled his lover and covered the soiled sheets with the fresh ones, not bothering or caring to remove them beforehand. Once they were settled back on cold and mostly clean sheets, the two men wrapped limbs over torsos and draped their legs over one another, holding each other close until the sun rose and their haven was invaded by their companions.

0o0o0

"Machiavelli!"

The man in question raised his head from the pile of papers stacked before him. Ezio Auditore entered his study and marched to his desk, clasped his hand firmly on his shoulder and grinned at him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Ezio?" 

"You, of course! We owe last night's success to you, my friend! You said you could distract him, and the man was nowhere in sight, we heard not one whisper of Cesare the entire contract."

Machiavelli allowed a small smile to grace his features and nodded at the assassin before him. "You were able to retrieve the information then? There were no hiccups in infiltrating the sanctuary?"

"None at all, in fact, we had time afterwards to enjoy the pleasures that Roma has to offer."

This time he glanced at the corner of the room where he knew La Volpe was sitting silently, listening to every word spoken. "Yes, I heard you did not return until this afternoon, one successful mission does not mean you relax on your ass for a day, Ezio."

Ezio only rolled his eyes at his ally and smirked, still basking in the afterglow of his evening. He told the younger man of the rest of his plans for the day, saying he would be hunting for new recruits for the remainder of the daylight and set out.

Once he was gone, and he was alone once more, he sagged in his desk chair, careful of sore ass and waited for him.

"We owe the success to you, amore mio."

"I do not wish to speak of my task last night, Volpe."

Volpe emerged from the shadows where he'd sat and stewed in his anger until the other assassin had exited the study.

"Our agreement ended at sunrise, Niccolò, and your side of the deal has yet to be fulfilled." He approached his the man exhausted in his chair, his head cradled in his hands. The tension between them had only intensified after they awoke content and well-rested that morning.

The daylight held no mercy for Machiavelli and painted the bruising and lacerations in an ugly light, illuminating the purple and blue skin around his neck and wrists, scratch marks running down his limbs and back, his torso completely free of recent scarring.

"I do not need to know the details, I am not ignorant of the way men work," Volpe started, holding a hand up to keep any violent words from spilling from the assassin's mouth, "but I do wish to know that Cesare Borgia will not seek you out in the future, will not look to harm you or, God forbid it, possess you in any way."

He stepped up to his young lover, cupping his cheek in his hand, rubbing his thumb under his eye. He brought his hands to Machiavelli's waist and pulled him close, holding him in the way he was unable to that morning.

"Please, Niccolò, tell me that Templar will keep away from you."

They stood there for minutes, blocking out the noise of the hideout, the voices of their companions and allies, basking only in each other's presence.

It was only after Machiavelli had turned away three insistent knocks at his door that he answered his lover.

"Cesare has no need of me, he did not have a look at my face and we did not exchange names." He paused and smacked Volpe away, "The man may be cunning and strategically sound, and I admire him for that at least—"

He trailed off as another knock sounded on the door.

"For Christ's sake, wait one God damn minute, you shithead!"

Volpe barked a laugh at the scrambling from behind the door and the indignant muttering trailing away with its owner. When he opened his eyes, he started back at how close Machiavelli had gotten and back away until his back hit the wall next to the door.

The assassin's eyes were narrowed and dark as he licked his lips and spoke in a tone one would be more comfortable hearing in a darkened room with a courtesan.

He grabbed at the thief's hair and yanked it back.

"Besides, dear Gilberto, no man," he leaned in and whispered against the hot skin of La Volpe's throat, "not even you, can possess me."


End file.
